


Maybe We Were Made to Dance Around Each Other, Babe

by sherlockian1895



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actual story content unlike the show, Brienne keeps her fire HOT, Brienne takes care of Jaime, Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, F/M, First Dance, I refuse to acknowledge ep04 besides the Oathsex, Jaime does a lot of self-reflection, Post-Battle, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Wine, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18763024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian1895/pseuds/sherlockian1895
Summary: The Battle of Winterfell is through, and though alive, Jaime Lannister is a little worse for wear. Having been faced with almost certain death, his feelings for the Knight of Tarth have come bubbling to the surface. And with the help of perpetual schemers Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark, there is only one way for this relationship to go.Post-episode 3 of season 8, diverging from canon from there though some elements are still present.





	1. Bed-Bound Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story title from "Cowards" and chapter title from "I Can Change", both by Raleigh Ritchie aka Jacob Anderson aka Grey Worm.

The wights dropped before them, a line of dominos tumbling backwards, and somehow, amazingly, stayed there. The onslaught had stopped, but Jaime’s eyes had yet to. They scanned from left to right, searching for movement, the next sign of danger, something to prove it wasn’t actually over. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until it suddenly escaped him, eyes falling on Brienne to his right. She was hunched over, hands on her thighs as she looked like she was going to be sick. But sick was _alive_ , and alive was something his fractured mind could process at the moment.

“M’lady,” a small voice wheezed to his left. Somewhere in the untraumatized part of his brain he was scolding the young squire to use Brienne’s new honorific, but this was neither the time nor the place, and Jaime didn’t think he could get the words out even if he tried. He felt the weight of Podrick’s hand come to rest on his shoulder as Brienne finally turned her head towards them, alarmed by the clink of metal coming together. Their eyes met, but what were once glistening sapphires seemed to have turned a dull blue, the life and sparkle drawn out of them by the horrors they had faced.

“Podrick,” Brienne’s voice cracked as she took a tentative step towards them, “Are you injured?”

"Not anything deadly m’lady.” Jaime observed Brienne’s sigh of relief in the drop of her shoulders and the smallest of upticks at the corner of her mouth. She tried to hide the wince of pain as she took another step towards them, but Jaime had already stuck out his arm, his golden hand finally proving some use as Brienne anchored herself to it while Jaime ushered her closer.

“And you, Ser Jaime?”

“I’m… alive,” he croaked, throat choked dry by the incessant smoke throughout the courtyard. He tried to smile reassuringly, but Brienne looked unconvinced. “Promise.” If he was being honest, he had never felt more alive than he did right now. As the adrenaline of the battle ran its final course through his veins, the aches and pains suddenly sprung to life. Jaime had never been more aware of his body, the air in his lungs as every breath shot a stab of pain in his side, the weight his legs supported as his knees threatened to buckle.

“Podrick, go see to Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion in the crypts. Inform them that it’s over. We will be right behind you.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Pod nodded at Brienne’s command and started to climb his way over the pile of death that had formed in front of them.

“He’s a good lad,” Jaime quipped. “And oh so loyal to his lady knight.” Humor, he had learned through his years as a soldier, had the great effect of temporarily keeping the pain at bay. Brienne tried to give him a look of contempt, but he could easily see there was nothing behind it.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” The realization that they weren’t all dead had started to return some of the color to her eyes; the eyes that Jaime had silently prayed he would get to see one more time. _I never want to go another day without seeing those eyes again,_ he thought. “Ser Jaime?”

“No.” Brienne’s eyes widened. “I mean, look at us,” he recovered, trying to keep a mental block on the pain radiating throughout his body. “We just fought an army of dead people. Or are they undead? I’m not sure the correct name for them.” That earned him the smallest of smiles, just enough to still be appropriate for the amount of death and carnage around them.

“Whatever they are,” she said, hesitantly. “I… I am glad we made it through.”

“As am I, _Ser_ Brienne,” the emphasis on her new title rolling sweetly off his tongue. Sbe smiled again, and the thought that _he_ had put that smile there, ultimately with some words and some brushes of his sword, was almost enough to keep him from buckling under the pain shooting up his leg. _Almost_.

“Ser Jaime!” Thankfully Brienne was close enough to stop him from hitting the ground, holding him up easily under his arms. Pressed against her breastplate, all he could think of was how undeserving of his own title he was, compared to her. “Podrick!”

“It’s just Jaime,” he whispered, pain in every movement of his jaw. “Just… Jaime.”

* * *

When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was the fresh air filling his nose, a welcome change to the smoke and smell of death that had been there before. The sunlight hit his senses next, eyes opening to the light filtering in through the window on the far wall. He was in a small chamber, lying on an even smaller bed, he realized. Jaime pushed himself up, only to find his gold hand missing and a burst of pain in his abdomen.

“And the sleeping beauty finally wakes,” said a smug voice to his left.

“Tyrion!” His mouth was dry and his tongue felt like it was covered in fur. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been happier to see that shit-eating grin on your face.” His brother was sitting perched on a plain wooden chair, the only other furniture in the small room besides the bed he currently occupied.

“Yes, we both live to see another miserable day here in Winterfell.” Jaime let out a puff of laughter only to immediately regret it, his side shooting in pain once more.

“How long have I…?”

“Eight hours, if that. Ser Brienne saw that the Tarly boy got you wrapped up and some northmen got you moved up here.” _Brienne._ Her face had been the last he saw before the pain had overtaken him, holding him close as she called for help. _Not for the first time_ , he thought.

“Brienne, is she--?”

“Fine,” Tyrion interjected with a knowing smirk. “Less worse for wear than yourself. I had to order her to leave and go rest an hour ago. She refused to leave your side, even as she threatened to tip off this very chair, half asleep. _She refused to leave my side all night_ , he thought, _which is why I’m here at all_.

“And myself?” His right leg felt stiff under the blankets, and looking down he could spot bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.

“The official prognosis? A fairly deep stab wound to your right thigh, a few broken ribs. Nothing our golden lion can’t recover from.”

“I told you I’m--” _Gods it hurt just to breathe_. “I’m a golden lion no longer. Grey, maybe. Didn’t we have one of those once?” Another smile filled Tyrion’s face.

“Yes, brother. Now,” he slid off the chair, “that I can confirm to the Knight of Tarth that you are indeed alive and awake, I find my job here is done, and there is wine to be found elsewhere around the castle. Shall I send some for you?”

“No, I, just… Just, give word to Brienne that I’d like to speak with her. To… thank her for saving me.”

“Don’t worry brother,” Tyrion chuckled as he opened the door to leave. “I have no doubt she’ll be here as soon as she wakes from her _much_ needed slumber. You should get some more rest yourself, Lord Snow has announced a funeral pyre to take place at dusk.” Jaime’s head hit the pillow as he heard the door shut behind Tyrion, the events of the previous night dragging his consciousness down as the undead had attempted just hours earlier. He closed his eyes, hoping that the next time he opened them, two sapphires would be sitting there waiting for him.

* * *

Jaime was next awoken to a pleasant warmth wrapped around his forearm, gently shaking him awake. “Ser Jaime, it is time for the funeral.” Brienne’s voice was a wisp of wind over his ear, gentle and fleeting. At the recognition that the warmth on his arm must be her hand, he cracked his eyes open, just enough to glimpse her large form leaning over him before returning to her position on the chair. Upon seeing he was awake her hand withdrew immediately, but Jaime could still feel the ghost of her touch, trying with all his might to memorize the feeling.

“I told you,” he drawled, his good hand seeking out the source of heat that had so cruelly left him, “it’s just Jaime.” His palm found her knee and his fingers curled around it.

"S--, Jaime,” she corrected herself, hesitantly, “Lord Snow has asked everyone to be present for the burning of the dead. Are you well enough to make it?” Brienne eyed his hand on her knee but made no move to scurry away from the contact. Jaime used the hold on her to prop himself up on the bed.

“Of course, as Lord Snow and the Dragon Queen command.” He sucked in a pained breath as he fully sat up, not failing to notice the trail Brienne’s eyes followed down his side. “Though I should probably be a bit more presentable,” Jaime joked, eyebrows raised as he looked down at his bare chest. He hoped his missing shirt was a pile of ash somewhere, the blood and grime gone for good. His eyes turned to Brienne, her face flushed a bright pink, either at his indecency or, he hoped, for reasons far less innocent.

“Yes, of course,” she said suddenly, shooting up from the chair and leaving his arm dangling. “Lord Tyrion had some fresh clothes sent for you.” She picked up a bundle of fabric from the corner by the door and brought it over, placing it next to him. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said quickly, making a beeline for the door.

“Brienne, wait I--” She froze, fingers wrapped around the door handle. He breathed in deep, regret immediate due to the now familiar pain shooting into his side. “I require your assistance, if you’d be so kind.” Brienne turned on her heels, slowly making her way back over to the bed. Jaime rotated himself gingerly, the cold stones sending a jolt through his body as his bare feet caressed the floor. She loomed over him, but when he tried to raise himself to reach her height, the support of his right leg threatened to give out once again.

"Here,” she said, holding out her arm for him to steady himself. Her skin still held the same filth that had seemed to permanently sink into his own, but her hand was strong in his, pulling him to stand.

“Thank you,” Jaime replied, his  voice soft and low. “For everything.” Brienne gave him the briefest of smiles, enough to send his heart unwillingly off to the races, before letting his hand go, grabbing the fresh tunic from the pile.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked quietly as she pulled the shirt over his head. The stiff muscles in his shoulders protested as he pushed his arms through the holes. _Gods he was getting old_.

“Much more alright now that I have Ser Brienne of Tarth assisting me,” he gibed. She rolled her eyes in response, finishing the ties at his shirt front. Jaime studied her quiet and methodic movements as she outfitted him with a new jacket and clean boots. As she fixed the clasp of a cloak around his neck, he was entranced by the deftness of her long fingers, performing their task with precision. Her face was tantalizingly close, Jaime thought, and with a quick shift to the balls of his feet, he could easily close the short distance between them.

“I meant it,” he whispered. “Thank you.” She swallowed and opened her mouth to respond, blue eyes swimming, but with the next breath she had stepped away. The void left in Brienne’s wake was tangible, and all Jaime wanted was for it to be filled again by its former occupant.

“Do you need help down to the gate?” Brienne asked.

“I can make it,” he responded, tentatively taking a step towards her. The first, with his left, was good, but his right betrayed him, and he was once again grateful for Brienne’s quick reflexes as she prevented his fall.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she teased, a small laugh breaching her lips. The two made their way down to the courtyard, Brienne supporting Jaime and helping to keep the weight off his right leg. They silently met up with Pod and Tyrion as they passed through the front gate. Tyrion gave the two a once-over before breaking from the stream of people to join the Dragon Queen. Jaime kept his arm wrapped his around Brienne’s back as they stood silent during Jon’s speech. With the pretense of keeping him from collapse, she surprisingly kept her arm around him as well.

“There is plenty of food and drink for everyone back in the hall,” Jon finished. “Let us celebrate our victory, but most importantly,” he inclined his head towards the pyres, “celebrate the life their sacrifice has granted us.” The crowd applauded, and Jaime was once again struck with the sheer insanity of what they had somehow survived.

“Would you like to attend the festivities?” Brienne asked, pulling him out of his reverie. They had started back towards what remained of the castle, scarred by the battle the night before. Celebrating their victory was low on his priority list; all he really desired was a warm fire, a cup of wine, and to get the weight off his injured leg. Jaime was about to tell her as much, but the Lady of Winterfell had suddenly appeared before them, motioning for Brienne to approach her.

“Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime,” Sansa greeted warmly, though Jaime felt ice piercing her gaze when she looked at him.

“Greetings m’lady,” Brienne responded, bowing only her head as she still had her arm wrapped around Jaime. “How can--”

“It’s actually _Ser_ Brienne now,” he interjected, unable to stop himself and taking great satisfaction in the raise of Lady Sansa’s eyebrows at the news.

“Well then, _Ser_ Brienne,” Sansa smiled. “I would be most honored if you...” she paused, eyes once again turning to Jaime, carefully assessing him and his hold on her sworn sword. “...If you and Ser Jaime would like to join me at the feast.”

“Of course m’lady,” Brienne nodded. Sansa gave the two a tight smile before turning away, quickly caught up in conversation with none other than Tyrion as she entered the castle. Jaime unconsciously slumped at Sansa’s departure, grateful for the lack of further questioning about his loyalty to their cause. In turn, however, he caused Brienne to bear more of his weight. “I can escort you to your chambers if you would like to rest, S--,” he shot her a look, “Jaime. I’m sure Lady Sansa would understand.”

Though the picture of his warm bed was enticing, the thought of being alone, of not being by her side, sent a chill down his spine. “As long as I can sit down,” Jaime quipped. “And that wilding doesn’t try and tell us again why he’s called ‘Giantsbane’.” Brienne snorted at his request, her laugh coming in sharp bursts and sending tendrils of warmth radiating from his heart down through his extremities. It was infectious, and soon enough he too found himself laughing, like it was the only thing keeping his head afloat above the death and destruction they had survived. 

"I cannot guarantee the second,” she confessed, finally able to gather enough air to speak. “However I will give my utmost effort to garner you a chair.”

“But it is your duty as a knight to protect the weak, is it not?” he goaded her, reminded of their days on the road where this type of banter was the only way to entertain himself, though now, there was no malice behind his words.

“Oh shut it.” Brienne’s eyes finally gleamed once again, sapphires meeting emeralds, before she guided him along to the great hall, Jaime wondering all the while what god to thank that they had both made it through to see another day.


	2. Think About Your Heart, Forget About Your Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "A Moor" by Raleigh Ritchie.

The night’s festivities were already in full swing as Brienne and Jaime entered Winterfell’s great hall. Their boots squelched as they traversed through the crowd, sticking from the ale that had already been carelessly spilled across the floor. Brienne used her height to her advantage as she spotted Podrick sitting in a corner near the head table with Tyrion. _She’d be able to get one of them to give up their seat for Jaime_.

“Podrick,” she called as they approached, “your chair, please.” The young squire immediately stood, wine sloshing in his goblet. Tyrion’s scrutinizing gaze pricked her skin as she assisted Jaime, leaving her to pull her arm away too quickly and for Jaime to land with a _omph_ on the seat.

“I see you are up and about, brother,” Tyrion’s eyes flickered between Jaime and Brienne. “Wine?”

“Please.”

“Podrick, if you’d--”

“I’ll get it,” Brienne interjected, happy for an excuse to leave Tyrion’s presence, if only temporarily. The way he looked at her made her feel like an unknown insect under a maester’s looking glass, as if he was trying to study her and puzzle out her secrets. Her right side and arm blazed where they had been wrapped around Jaime. Brienne scolded herself in taking pleasure in it, all too aware of how Jaime Lannister could ever feel about _her_ , even in spite of his actions over the past few days. The fight of her life had left her little time to consider Jaime’s peculiar behavior since he had arrived in Winterfell.

There was the fact that prior to the battle, he seemed to be around every corner she turned, as if lying in wait, only to then become her shadow as she marched around the training yard, correcting form and giving words of encouragement to the North’s greenest soldiers. Brienne found him placed beside her at every meal, sharing smiles and laughter with Pod, but about what she would never know, as their conversations always seemed to abruptly come to an end as soon as she sat down. Their nights were spent warmly huddled around the fireplace, listening to Tyrion and Davos tell grand stories of their adventures, while Jaime, who had never seemed to shut up as her prisoner, never had much to add to the conversation. He instead chose to stare off into the flames, though occasionally, Brienne felt as if she could feel the heat of his gaze upon her, but never caught him in the act.

Then there was the night before, when he had knighted her. She had thought it must be a jape, some cruel joke between the men surrounding her. But then Jaime looked at her and said _Kneel_ and before she knew it she was doing exactly as he had commanded. For a moment, as his sword brushed her shoulders and he said the words, she was transported back to the moment she had kneeled before Renly, pledging her service as a member of his Kingsguard. _But this was different_ , Brienne had thought as he told her to rise, _this was Jaime, making her his equal_. Their eyes met and Brienne was struck with the realization that he had never looked at her the way he did then. In that moment she had wanted to tell him everything, just the two of them standing as if the rest of the world didn’t exist, but then the clapping had started and the moment was over, Jaime seeming to have returned to his normal self.

“Ser Brienne, are you alright?” A voice cut through her musings. She stumbled, thankful to catch herself before she went crashing into Lady Stark.

“Lady Sansa! My apologies, I was not paying attention. I was just looking for some wine for Ser Jaime.”

“It is no problem,” smiled Sansa, knowingly. “I am glad you and Ser Jaime are here together, enjoying yourselves.”

“I am just assisting him m’lady. He was injured during the battle.” Brienne didn’t know why she suddenly found herself explaining her actions, as there was nothing improper about fetching wine for someone.

“Yes of course,” Sansa nodded, still smiling. “Well, I will not keep you any longer. Don’t worry yourself with me tonight; Arya has promised to keep me company and ‘make sure I enjoy the celebration’, whatever that means. And please,” she took Brienne’s hand in her own, “enjoy yourself. You have earned it.” Brienne opened her mouth to respond, about how her duty as a knight was to protect her lady, not to _enjoy_ herself, but Sansa had already slipped away. Thankfully, a flagon of wine was revealed behind where Sansa once stood, and she snatched its handle before it could disappear to another table.

Upon return, Brienne found the three men laughing over some story Podrick was telling. “And then I couldn’t believe that she had actually _bitten_ his ear off!” he regaled.

"The Hound! She bit an ear off the _Hound_!” Tyrion roared. Brienne poured Jaime a cup of wine, Tyrion and Pod too engrossed in their laughter to have noticed her presence.

“You never told me about this,” he murmured as he took the cup. Brienne leaned against the wall next to where Jaime was seated.

“You never asked,” she replied. “I thought he was dead until recently. And now that he’s not dead and fighting for our cause, I found it rather cruel to bring it up.” Jaime snorted as he brought the wine to his lips.

“Where’s yours?” he asked, motioning with his cup.

“I’m alright, thank you though.” Brienne rarely chose to indulge, prefering to keep hold of her faculties, even if those around her did not. The occasional cup of ale, perhaps, when there were no other options at whatever inn her and Pod had managed to find for a night, but never more than one, and certainly not with the intent of getting drunk.

“Brienne.” Her heart fluttered just as it did every time he said her name with no title or precursor. “We just fought an army of dead people _and_ lived to tell the tale. The least you can do is celebrate our survival.” Jaime looked up at her, emerald eyes gleaming with warmth from the wine, and pressed his cup into her chest. “ _Drink._ ” Brienne sighed. _What was it she had said to Pod just the night before?_

“Alright, just a bit.” She took hold of the cup, trying, and failing, to ignore the heat radiating from Jaime’s fingers when they brushed her own. Jaime’s eyes tracked the cup as Brienne raised it to her mouth, watching intently as she took a sip. “What?” she asked, noticing his stare.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually indulge yourself before.” A classic Jaime Lannister smile cut across his face. “It’s a good look on you, _Ser_.” Brienne choked down the wine in her mouth. _Ah_ , she thought, _there’s the Jaime Lannister I’m used to_. She thrust the cup back towards him, taking satisfaction in the slosh of the wine over the rim and on to his lap. Jaime refused to take the goblet, instead tilting his head, awaiting a response.

“Maybe I’ve never had a reason to indulge myself around you,” Brienne retorted. She didn’t get the response she was hoping for, however, as Jaime’s smile only grew wider, finally reclaiming his cup.

“Podrick!” Jaime turned around in his chair, back towards the now group of Tyrion, Pod, and Davos. “Your knight requires another goblet please.”

“Yes, Ser Jaime.” Podrick quickly finished off his own cup before setting off in search of another.

“You’ve got a good lad there, Ser Brienne,” Davos piped in. “Reminds me of my own son.” As much as she gave her squire a hard time in the training yard, Brienne found herself incredibly proud of how far he had come since he first joined her. When she had heard his voice after the wights had fallen, she had silently thanked all the Seven that Pod had survived.

“He’s always got room to improve,” Brienne smiled as Pod handed her an already full cup of wine.

“Now as I was saying,” Davos continued with Podrick now returned. “This man here,” he waved his cup towards Tyrion, “tried to burn me to a crisp at Blackwater Bay!”

“I wouldn’t say I tried to burn _specifically_ you to a crisp, Ser Davos,” argued Tyrion. “I merely tried to burn Stannis’ army to a crisp, and it just so happened that you were a part of that army.” Laughing, the three men returned to their previous conversation, once again leaving Brienne on her own with Jaime. She sipped her wine, enjoying the warmth that started to spread from her belly throughout the rest of her body. A chair opened up nearby and she pulled it over towards Jaime, sitting down next to him.

“So, tell me more about this fight with the Hound.” Jaime gingerly set his cup on the floor between them. Brienne watched as he grabbed the flagon off the floor, trying not to bend over in the process, and contemplated the predicament of having no way to both hold the cup and pour his wine. Realizing his situation, he sighed, a pained expression crossing his face.

“I told you,” she said, grabbing the cup and holding it up for him. “It’s in the past now. What’s done is done.” Jaime poured the wine, nodding his thanks. He gestured towards Brienne’s own cup, topping it up when she held it out towards him. Once again the warmth of Jaime’s fingers wrapped around her own as she returned his cup to him.

Jaime smirked over the rim of his goblet. “Ah yes, the past. Just what else have you been up to since we last saw each other?”

“I think you know the whole of it.” Brienne drank her wine, hoping Jaime would drop the subject. “And it’s only been about a month since we last saw each other,” she remarked.

“What about him?” Jaime raised his glass, pointing in the general direction of Tormund Giantsbane at the other end of the hall, who was currently downing a hornful of wine in one gulp. “Have you been up to the wilding since we last saw each other? He seems quite keen on you.”

Brienne felt her face flush at the mention of Tormund, and hoped Jaime would just attribute it to the wine. She coughed, trying to buy herself some more time to come up with a response. Since they’d met, Tormund had constantly been on about the “giant babies” they would have, and had constantly sought her out around Winterfell. She’d tried to avoid him, unsuccessfully she might add, and had no idea how to tell him that while she was flattered, truly, she had no desire to go live north of the Wall and have his children. Her eyes turned to Jaime and her heart sank. _Of course it was_ him _who was going on about her love, or lack thereof, life_.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, drinking more wine.

“Oh I think you do.” He finished off his cup, holding it out for more. Brienne reached over for the flagon, pausing before pouring the wine. She looked up, surprised to find her eyes meeting Jaime’s green ones. They held mirth, from the wine and the general happiness of being alive after the night previous, but also a challenge, daring Brienne to acknowledge Tormund’s interest in her.

“You sound quite jealous.” She held his gaze, unsure of where her response had come from but now committed to seeing it through, and filled his cup.

“I suppose I do,” he murmured, finally looking away. Brienne felt her shoulders drop, tension leaving her as she hoped Jaime would finally give up on this song and dance about Tormund. They sat in silence, each drinking their wine as if the previous conversation had never happened. A few minutes later, Jaime spoke once more. “Dance with me.”

“Excuse me?” Brienne exclaimed, taken aback.

“Dance with me,” he repeated, softly. At the other end of the hall the tables and chairs had been cleared, and a few couples had begun dancingly merrily in the open space.

“Jaime you can barely stand!” Brienne refused to voice the real incredulity of his statement, that this was some sort of joke, that Jaime Lannister would not, _could not_ , have any desire to dance with her. Still in shock of his request, she had failed to notice him drop his cup to the floor and move his good hand to just hovering above her own. Her heart jumped up to her throat as he finally placed his hand on hers, curling his fingers around to her palm.

“I’ll let you lead then,” he grinned. Brienne had half a mind to get up and walk away, leaving Jaime to his wine and his taunts. However, no sooner had she started to stand had he gripped her hand tighter, allowing himself to be brought to his feet as she stood.

“Jaime I--” she sputtered, stopping when their eyes met. He was looking at her the same as after he knighted her. After spending so much time in close quarters, Brienne thought she had identified all of Jaime’s facial expressions, yet this one remained unknown to her. The realization scared her, not knowing what Jaime truly meant, and she quickly looked away.

“Just one dance.” He moved his hand to her arm, providing more purchase to shift the weight off his injured leg. “I don’t think I’ll last much longer than that anyway,” he chuckled. Brienne wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the almost now pitiful look in Jaime’s eyes that finally caused her to concede.

“Fine.” Jaime smiled genuinely at her acquiescence. “Just the one.” Despite Jaime offering the dance, Brienne found herself to be the one guiding him to the other end of the hall. More couples had joined the fray, dancing to the distinctly northern music. She led them into the corner, hoping for less of a chance of them being seen, particularly by Tormund or Tyrion, and stopped, standing a good foot away from Jaime. Her plan for a quick dance with as little contact as possible was quickly foiled when Jaime wrapped his right arm around her waist and pulled her close. He found her hand once more, this time intertwining their fingers.

Flush against Jaime, Brienne’s pulse quickened. She desperately tried to ignore the press of his body against her, firm but leaner than when she had seen him last, and failed miserably. What had earlier just been warmth from his fingers had turned to a searing heat pulsating between them, setting afire whatever part of her body she turned her attention to. Since joining their hands, Jaime’s gaze had been firmly set upon Brienne’s face. She had not yet however, found the courage to meet it. _A woman’s courage_ , Catelyn Stark had once called what Brienne so severely lacked.

“I’ve never danced with a knight before.” Jaime’s breath was suddenly hot against her ear, sending foreign, tingling sensations down her spine to the lowest reaches of her gut. The arm around her waist guided her from side to side, a mere sway thankfully all Jaime’s injury would allow. His lips pressed gently against her jaw, just below her ear, burning a brand where they had touched her skin.

“I… I haven’t either,” she stammered, acutely aware that Jaime had yet to move away from her face.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that.” His beard tickled her cheek when he smiled. Brienne supposed if you equated knights with lords, then Jaime wouldn’t be wrong. She had told him once, what seemed so long ago, of her dance with Renly back on Tarth. Of how he had been courteous and kind, and how in that moment, he had earned her loyalty and willingness to die for him. A few chivalrous words, duty if nothing else, and Renly had unknowingly won her heart.

 _And what had Jaime done?_ _For he had achieved the same result._

“Brienne?” Jaime asked, concerned, returning her thoughts to the present. For the first time since they had started the dance, sapphires met emeralds, and what Brienne found there frightened her to her core.

“I need to piss.” She dropped Jaime’s hand, abruptly backing away. With a quick turn of her heel she was out of the hall and into the corridor, racing towards her chambers. Away from the warmth of the gathering, the cold cut across her like a knife, perfectly outlining where Jaime had once been. Upon reaching her room, Brienne stoked the dying fire, adding more wood before sitting down in front of it. Arms hugged around herself, she closed her eyes, only to find images of Jaime Lannister dancing behind them.

Brienne knew the answer to her previous question. Jaime had caused her more grief than she cared to admit, whether it was his merciless taunts or his dogged loyalty to his family. He had also saved her life, more times than she could count now after the battle. He had given her the Lannister Valyrian steel that had been destined to be his, outfitted her in the armor she still wore to this day, and bequeathed her Pod, her loyal squire. Jaime had done what no man in the Seven Kingdoms was brave enough to, fulfilling her childhood hopes and dreams of becoming a knight. He had kept his oath, rode north, and fought for the living.

And now… now he had danced with her, joked _with_ her, and seemed to genuinely want to be in her presence. She brushed her fingers along the side of her face, where his beard and lips had been. _Her heart hadn’t stood a chance_.


	3. When She Smiles All the Kings Will Bow Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply, deeply apologize to anyone out there who might have actually been waiting for this chapter, as it took me far longer than it really should have to write. Kudos to my wonderful boyfriend for being my live-in editor and listening to my ramblings about where I want this story to go. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Chapter title from "Kids Again" by Artist vs. Poet.

Upon the third count, Jaime had concluded that Brienne had exactly twenty-seven freckles scattered across her face, ranging from dark to almost unnoticeable. He wanted to draw his finger along and connect them, as the maesters did with their maps of the stars above, tracing out patterns as beautiful as the blue orbs that continually averted his gaze. Jaime cocked his head to the right, attempting to catch her off guard so he could look into her eyes, but the sight of an unaccounted for freckle just below her ear, situated in the middle of purpling bruise, distracted him from the task at hand. Brienne’s grip tightened around his fingers when he leaned in for closer inspection. A few wisps of straw blonde hair that had refused to cooperate with their owner’s attempts to slick them back tickled his nose.

“I’ve never danced with a knight before,” he whispered in her ear, half in an attempt to make her laugh and half to give any sort of justification for his proximity to her. He turned his attention back to the bruise on her neck, its deep color clashing violently with the paleness of her skin, and frowned. She too was not without wounds from the battle, and Jaime was sure there plenty more like this one spread across her body. Without thinking, he ever so gently pressed his lips upon the mark, like a mother would to a wounded child. Brienne’s skin flushed hot beneath him as her breath hitched in her throat, sending a wave of pleasure down his spine.

“I… I haven’t either,” she finally responded.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” he smiled, amused at her inability to remember what he imagined to be very few dances in her lifetime. She had told him once of Renly’s visit to Tarth, back when he was delirious with fever and pain, probably expecting him to never remember it. But he did. In fact, Jaime seemed to remember everything Brienne had ever said about the late stag very well indeed, whether he wanted to or not. 

Speaking of Brienne’s suitors, his thoughts were then drawn to Tormund Giantsbane, the complete opposite of Renly Baratheon in every way. Especially in that, unlike Renly, he _was_ very much interested in taking Brienne to bed. Ever since Jaime had arrived at Winterfell, the wildling had seemed to appear at the most inopportune moments, whether it be at dinner with Brienne after a long training session in the yard, or around the fire in what could have been his last happy moments alive. Grudgingly, he did have to give Tormund some credit. If it wasn’t for his complete lack of understanding of the Westeros social structure and his constant attempts to woo Brienne, Jaime would never had the opportunity to knight the one person who deserved it more than anyone. Jaime was no fool, he knew that were it not for Tormund Giantsbane and his inherent need to prove himself more deserving of Brienne’s affection, he would never have been called to action, lacking the knightly courage to do what was right in the face of tradition.

Knighting Brienne had awoken something, no not something, _someone_ , inside him. It had brought to light the Jaime Lannister of fifteen kneeling before Ser Arthur Dayne, fulfilling his dream since childhood and vowing to follow in the Sword of the Morning’s footsteps. He thought he would change the world then, saving fair maidens from peril, riding forth in the name of the king and roaring his family’s words on the battlefield. Jaime supposed he still had accomplished those deeds, though perhaps not in the way he had once imagined. Now Ser Brienne of Tarth was the knight he idolized to be, inspiring him to dust off the old Jaime’s armor and remember the vows he had made that day in the Kingswood.

When Brienne knelt before him he saw a glimmer of himself in her, yet there was so much more behind the disbelieving oceans of blue staring back at him. Brienne was no privileged boy of fifteen, she was a woman who had faced trials and perils he would never know, who had kept every vow she had ever made, and who had seen the sliver of honor he still had left and did her damnedest to remind him of it every chance she got. Their eyes locked when she rose and it took everything Jaime had not to kneel before _her_ , to thank Brienne for saving him from himself. 

Returning to the present, he pulled back to face her once more, inspired by his musings to tell her everything he had wanted to the night before. Yet he found Brienne’s gaze distant, as if she too were reliving some previous memory. “Brienne?” Jaime asked, concerned. Finally, the sapphires he had so desperately been seeking filled his vision, waves of love and fear crashing together. 

“I need to piss.” Brienne dropped his hand, fully backing away before turning and practically sprinting out the door. The heat where Brienne had been pressed against him quickly vanished, the cold air of rejection promptly filling its place. Jaime’s first instinct was to immediately follow after her, but his body betrayed him and his boots remained stubbornly fixed to the floor. 

“It seems the Lion of Lannister is as mortal as the rest of us,” came a smug voice from below. Jaime turned his eyes downwards, unenthused to find his younger brother smirking up at him. “I too remember when I first met love’s keen sting.”

“Now is not the time Tyrion,” he growled, teeth clenched. 

“Oh, but it is.” Tyrion pulled on the end of Jaime’s cloak. “Come, brother.” Jaime found he hadn’t the will to protest and wordlessly followed Tyrion’s lead back to the other end of the hall. He soon found himself plopped on a chair, surrounded on either side by Podrick and Davos, with Tyrion sitting squarely across from him. “Now, do you care to explain that little stunt we all just witnessed?”

Jaime sunk down in his chair, wishing desperately for more wine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffed, folding his arms over his chest and avoiding meeting Tyrion’s gaze.

“You, Jaime Lannister, _danced_ with Brienne of Tarth, and she _ran away_. What did you _do_?” 

“It’s Ser Brienne,” he muttered petulantly, avoiding a real response. Glares on either flank came from Davos and Pod. “And I didn’t _do_ anything,” Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “She just… left.” _What_ had _he done?_ It felt as though a ship had just dropped its anchor in his stomach, pulling any optimism at Brienne returning his feelings down with it. His chest ached, though whether from his broken ribs or from Brienne looking at him like a frightened doe, he wasn’t sure. _Probably both_. 

“Perhaps she just wanted to retire for the night,” Davos hazarded. “We’ve had the fight our lives, we all deserve a good night’s sleep.” Jaime was hit with a wave of exhaustion at the mention of rest. The desire to be in Brienne’s presence, with the small upturn at the corners of her mouth when she tried not to smile at his jokes and the warmth of her laughter when she inevitably gave in, had kept him going for far longer than his body should have allowed. And now in her absence, the injuries and trauma from facing the army of the dead had finally caught up with him. If he couldn’t spend time with Brienne, he could at least get the sleep he desperately needed.

“Something I think I will join her in,” he yawned. Jaime rose slowly from the chair, limbs stiff and aching. 

“I’m sure he’d _love_ that,” Tyrion muttered to Pod, both of them sniggering over their wine. Jaime gave the two one last glare before making his way out of the great hall, painstakingly slow. It took every last bit of strength he had to make his way down the corridor, only to be met with a formidable looking set of stairs at its end. Braced against the wall, he pulled his injured leg up to meet his good one on the first step, continuing in this way until he finally reached the top, out of breath and in incredible pain. After a few moments of respite he continued to make his way down the corridor, only to turn the corner right into the chest of a giant.

“Kingkiller!” a voice boomed. “Running away from the party already?” Jaime reeled backwards, almost certain that Tormund Giantsbane was the _last_ person he wanted to see at the moment. His entire body hurt, from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes, and the sight of Tormund did nothing to help the particular ache in his chest.

“Just turning in,” Jaime gritted out. A flagon of wine swung from one of Tormund’s hands while the other gripped the ale horn that hung around his neck. Wine dribbled down the wilding’s face as he drank from the horn, sighing in satisfaction when he finally pulled away.

“Do you know where the big woman is?” Tormund’s eyes gleamed, drunk on the thrill of life and alcohol. Jaime _did_ know where Brienne was, as he assumed she had run off to her own chambers, but the thought of Tormund Giantsbane ambling his way back down the corridor towards Brienne made his stomach churn. 

“I believe she is with her squire Podrick, back down in the great hall. I do think I heard mention that she was looking for you.” Jaime smiled sharply, the lie easily slipping off his tongue. Tormund’s eyes lit up, unaware of Jaime’s deception.

“You know, you’re alright Kingkiller.” Tormund thrust the flagon into Jaime’s chest, knocking an _omph_ out of him. “I won’t be needing this anymore.” A large grin filled his face and Tormund continued down towards the stairs, whistling as he went. Jaime released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he could no longer hear Tormund whistling. His fingers curled around the handle of the flagon. _At least he could drink his pains away._

Down the corridor a door slowly creaked open, and a bush of blonde hair warily poked out of the doorway. “Jaime?” At the sound of her voice his heart threatened to jump out of his chest. Jaime did his best to contain it, but the sight of Brienne reignited the fire smoldering inside him, and he was desperate to make reparations for whatever he had done to send her running. 

“Yes m’lady?” he finally answered. Brienne scoffed at the title but did not protest, perhaps taking pity on Jaime limping towards her. 

“I, um…” Her eyes seemed glued to the floor, unmoving even when Jaime’s boots must have filled their view. He had brought himself as close as he dared, stopping just short of touching her. “Thank you,” she finally said, a burst of air leaving her lungs, “For sending Tormund away. He is very…”

“Presumptuous?” he supplied. Brienne snorted at his suggestion, unable to suppress the growing smile on her face.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” She lifted her head, but her smile quickly dropped as their eyes met, suddenly remembering their prior parting. “I…” Brienne took a step backwards, distancing them once again. Before he could convince himself otherwise, Jaime stepped forward, filling the empty space but wincing in the process.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing with the flagon. Brienne hesitated, eyes flickering between something in the corner of the room, just out of sight, and Jaime. The glow of Brienne’s fire had spread its way to where Jaime stood, its warm tendrils wrapping themselves around him and trying their best to coax him inside. But he did not give in to temptation, instead waiting for Brienne to give him permission to enter her room. Her eyes continued to linger on the other side of the room, and after a particularly long bout of deliberation the tension seemed to give way in her shoulders, her body giving in to whatever her mind had agreed.

“Of course… I’m sure you’d like to sit down.” She stepped back once more, allowing Jaime to enter. Her chambers were small, though significantly larger than his own but perhaps just as spartan in their contents. A simple bed sat against the far wall, again larger than his own, _this was simply unfair_ , but there seemed to be nothing of great significance, particularly nothing that Brienne could have stared at for so long. He placed the wine flagon on the table and eased himself onto the small couch that faced the fireplace, grateful to finally sit down.

“Are you going to join me?” After latching the door Brienne had remained standing, warily keeping her distance.

“Right… yes.” She placed another log on the fire before sitting to his left. Her body remained stiff, eyes focused on the fire in front of them. 

“It’s quite warm in here,” he said. His statement wasn’t without truth, _it was particularly warm_ , but Jaime realized that, as usual, if they were going to have a conversation, he would have to carry it along.

“It’s the first thing I learned when I came to the North; put on a new piece of wood every time you leave or enter the room.” _Typical._

“You know what I learned when I came to the North?” Jaime smirked. “I fucking _hate_ the North.” Brienne finally turned to him, incredulity spewn across her face. He knew exactly how to get under her skin, needling his way into her head to get what he wanted, _to talk_.

“It grows on you,” she sighed and turned back towards the fire, resigned to Jaime obviously not understanding. Unbeknownst to Brienne, he did understand, because the north _had_ grown on him. Sure the people were as cold as the snow on the ground and he still wasn’t convinced that the Dragon Queen wouldn’t have his head, but since he had come north he had found Brienne once again. How fitting, he thought, for she was his northern star, always leading him safely home; King’s Landing, Winterfell, upholding his vows, it had always been Brienne guiding his way.

“Maybe,” Jaime muttered. His fingers played with the clasp of his cloak, but he quickly became frustrated with his inability to undo the damned thing. Brienne left him to suffer for what felt like far longer than it actually was, watching him out of the corner of her eye, before she finally intervened.

“Oh just let me help me you,” she grumbled. Her fingers brushed over the hollow of his neck for the briefest of moments as she undid the clasp, but they were gone just as quickly as they had come, roughly pulling the cloak out from behind him. Brienne stood, carrying Jaime’s cloak to join her own on the small rack in the corner of the room. She had pushed her own cloak aside when a familiar glint of gold in the firelight caught his eye. Both Oathkeeper and his own ill-named Widow’s Wail hung in their scabbards side by side, together just as they had been in battle the night before.

“Is that my sword?” he asked, as if to suggest that Brienne had come by it by some unscrupulous means. He knew she hadn’t, _obviously_ , but the blush that covered her face as she struggled to respond was worth the false accusation.

“Podrick brought it to me after they had bandaged you up” answered Brienne. She had returned to the couch but remained standing, arms folded over her chest and eyes towards the floor. “I… didn’t want anything to happen to it.” Jaime smiled, grateful for her thoughtfulness. 

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely. “Not that I’m particularly useful with it, but, still, probably best not to misplace it.”

“You fought valiantly Ser Jaime,” Brienne rebutted, never allowing Jaime to wallow in any sort of self pity. “I would not have made it through the night were it not for you and your sword.”

“As did you _Ser_ Brienne.” The more he said her new title, the more he savored the way it rolled off his tongue. “And though I am more than a little worse for wear, it was an honor to serve under your command.” He’d meant what he’d said that day in the training yard. Brienne was as good as, if not better than, any commander he’d served with in his father’s army, quickly earning the respect of even the gruffest of men after easily knocking them to the ground. Her battle tactics spoke of someone knowledgeable beyond their years, and if Jaime had to guess, Brienne had spent her fair share of time sat around Lord Selwyn’s table, learning everything she could from one of the few men to take her ambitions seriously.

Brienne sheepishly smiled at his compliment and Jaime couldn’t help but mirror the action. “You listened far better to my commands than you ever used to.” She was grinning now, taking pleasure in taking the piss out of him. 

“I told you, I am a changed man,” he smirked and patted the empty space next to him, encouraging her to sit back down. “My father is assuredly rolling in his grave as we speak,” Jaime continued, though perhaps only half joking. “His sons serving Targaryen and Stark women, the Valyrian steel he claimed from Ned Stark’s body finally returned home.” Brienne joined him once more, their thighs brushing, and the contact sent sparks up and down his side. “It’s quite poetic, actually,” he said softly. “The two swords forged from the Stark greatsword protecting Winterfell side by side, almost as if fighting as one. Maybe there’ll be a song of it one day. I know your Lady Stark used to be so fond of such songs…”

Jaime had turned his head toward Brienne out of habit, hoping, but not expecting, that he might one day catch her returning the glance. _Today_ , he decided, _was full of miracles_. Vast oceans of blue drowned the words in his throat, and he found himself once again enraptured in their beauty.

“Yes, quite poetic,” Brienne murmured. She visibly swallowed and her fingers clenched, as if steeling herself for impact before a tilt. “Jaime,” Brienne paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Jaime why are you here?”

“If I remember correctly you invited me in not long ago,” he retorted. He knew what she was really asking: why was he _here_ , in the North, facing almost certain death instead of warming Cersei’s bed? Why was he following her like a lost hound and showering her with compliments when all the words he used to spew at her were meant to cut her down? And most certainly why had he knighted her when the world had spent Brienne’s  life telling her over and over that she was everything but? To answer truly would be admitting that he came all this way to keep his oath and find _her,_ to finally admit that Brienne was the knight he had seen in his dreams, feverish or not, restoring and defending his honor. 

Jaime called upon all the knightly courage he was supposed to possess and wrapped his hand around her own, caressing his thumb along its edges. “Would it be so terrible if I said you?”


End file.
